


Lovers' Eyes

by Le_Creationist



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:52:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Creationist/pseuds/Le_Creationist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt from Tumblr, "Modern AU Teacher!Stannis Student!Sansa."</p><p>Stannis is a university professor and Sansa is a young doctoral student. (Stannis/Sansa)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers' Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters belong to George RR Martin, I claim no profit from writing this. The title of this fic is from Mumford & Sons’ beautiful song “Lovers’ Eyes” which do not belong to me either.
> 
> A/N: This is my first GoT/ASOIAF fanfic, and for the same reasons enumerated by several others before me, I’ve come to adore Stannis/Sansa. I admire all of the work I’ve encountered with this ship so far, especially ShipMaesters’, linndechir’s and tempisfugit’s. I wrote this in response to a prompt I saw on Tumblr by youweremadatme and it went like this: “Modern AU|Stannis(!teacher!)xSansa(!student!)”
> 
> I couldn’t quite write the high school Teacher!Stannis and Student!Sansa, so I chose to have Stannis be a university professor and Sansa a doctoral student/ his research assistant. Please forgive me for any typos as this remains unbeta’d, and I was very excited to finish this and share it. I humbly hope you enjoy!

 

**Love was kind, for a time**

**Now just aches and makes me blind**

_-"Lovers’ Eyes” by Mumford & Sons_

* * *

 

He never quite knew when he grew so used to her, when he forgot to feel irritated at her quiet humming or her cheerful “good mornings” on her way in. When he found that he no longer chafed at the way she gently teased him. When he realized that there was no need to be so guarded around her because he simply trusted her. It was so easy to trust her, and in the tumultuous journey of his life, trust _never_ came easy. He still didn’t quite know if the softness in her gaze when she looked at him was only in his imagination. What he did know was real was the fleeting sensation of loss he felt, each time they finished their meetings. She was the quintessential research assistant, insightful where he floundered, and professional in spite of her tendency of challenging him in argument when she felt it necessary. They were a good team, he a respected but not particularly well-liked academic and she a doctoral student working together on a joint project studying ancient Westerosi military history.

What could have been a summer full of stress was somehow made more pleasant by virtue of the weather, or that was what he told himself anyway. He and his entire research team travelled along the west coast of what used to be Essos, stopping to examine the impressive archives in the old Free Cities. They were welcomed graciously by their hosts, first in Braavos followed by Pentos, Myr and Volantis. Their time abroad was undeniably fruitful in terms of the project, but he remembered most vividly the change that the sunshine wrought in his young assistant and the way her laugh seemed to float on the wind by the sea.

During their downtime he found himself frequently in her company, discussing anything and everything from their work to his memories of his childhood. Things that he never would have told anyone other than her, though he doesn’t really care to question why he continues trusting her in this way. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one affected by the warmth of the Pentoshi sun, or the calming sound of the waves at low tide.

On their last evening in Volantis, the team attended an extravagant dinner celebrating their recent findings. The event was organized by their university hosts and it was obviously to their benefit, as many of its donors were invited as well. He hated this about a life in academia—he was utter rubbish at courting donors and networking. In an attempt to avoid awkward conversation with an old rival of his, he engaged in small talk with the next closest person. He’d not been paying attention in his attempt to avoid Petyr Baelish, so when he realized he was talking to a rather attractive woman, he knew she was likely acting on an ulterior motive.

He was right.

Her name was Melisandre, and she was a biographer he’d never heard of, who for some reason wanted to write his story. With his eyes darting between her and the despicable Dr. Baelish, he reluctantly agreed.

It was only when Melisandre placed her hand on his forearm, squeezing lightly with an inviting smile on her face that he realized what he’d done. He felt another pair of eyes on him and as he turned his head, he spotted _her_. She quickly averted her gaze and made her excuses to the donors she’d been talking to, sweeping out of the banquet hall with her emerald gown trailing behind her. He knew the look of devastation on her face was not a product of his imagination.

 

They did not speak during the return trip home.

* * *

It was bloody ridiculous, he thought, that she would refuse to meet his eyes for longer than a few seconds at any given time. What he did in his private time was none of her business, yet he ached with the sense that he’d wronged her in some inexplicable way. She became “busy” and he did not doubt it, as she was his teaching assistant for his undergraduate seminar and they were in the midst of examinations and grading term papers. Their meetings over coffee were scratched from the calendar; the rest of the research team noticed the chasm as well.

He left his department office at the university later than usual one unremarkable Friday night, after a long day of inputting data and faculty meetings. Upon reaching his car, he cursed when he realized he’d forgotten his car keys in his office.

The door of the faculty break room remained ajar when he passed it. Unusual for this time of night at the onset of the weekend, and all of the other professors had locked up and left long ago. He paused when he heard the sound of hitched breathing coming from inside.

She was alone, slumped in a chair in the middle of the room. Instantly he was concerned when he noticed she was shaking with her arms wrapped around her middle, as if to protect herself. Her blouse hung awkwardly over her shoulders, had it been ripped from her? When he stepped into the room her eyes snapped to his and whatever she saw in him caused her face to crumple in despair.

He was equally enraged and grateful as she collapsed into his arms, furious at the boy who attacked her but he cherished the opportunity to hold her, comfort her, after such a long time away from her. When her tears were spent, she whispered, “Joffrey. Joffrey Lannister. A student in my last discussion section.”

He stayed with her when she filed the police report and made it a point to visit her during her office hours from that point forward, to the chagrin of their undergraduate students who came to her for tutoring.

* * *

As much as he regretted agreeing to it, he could admit that it was rather a novelty to have one’s life story and professional accomplishments immortalized by someone as sycophantic as Melisandre. He kept his word—he was nothing if not a man who kept his word—and showed up to all of their scheduled meetings during which she studiously listened and took notes.

On their last meeting, he was alarmed when Melisandre leaned forward and placed her graceful hand over his knee, in what he assumed was a thinly veiled attempt at seduction. Just when he’d drawn a breath to rebuke her, the door to his office opened and in walked his research assistant. She looked absolutely pole-axed to find him in such a compromising position. In her embarrassment she dropped the stack of files she’d come to give to him and fled immediately after hasty but polite apologies. He didn’t know whether to laugh or curse—never in his life had he thought he’d have this sort of dilemma, of all people.

He removed Melisandre’s hand from his person and thanked her for her time, escorting her out of his office before locking it up. He asked around the department but no one knew where she’d gone.

 _I like the rooftop, the distance from the city traffic, from everyone in the department. It’s a good place for quiet reflection._ She’d told him once.

She was leaning against the top of the balustrade, her back to him as he approached. Her shoulders tensed when she heard his footsteps.

“Sansa, that was not what you think it was.”

Her expression was indignant when she faced him.

“She was feeling you up! I wasn’t born yesterday though you seem to think so.”

She was breathing quickly, her cheeks heated by a charming flush, her eyes were fierce with anger, and she’d never been more devastatingly beautiful to him. This was it, he thought to himself, he knew no greater desire than to make things right between them. This was more than the sort of evanescent lust a woman like Melisandre could inspire in a man, though he’d honestly never been tempted by her. This was all-encompassing; it seized him with its potency as he let himself stare at her.

“I’m sorry,” was somehow all he could bring himself to murmur despite his racing heart. He hated himself in that moment. He felt paralyzed by his need to convey his feelings; would he always be doomed to watch the wreck of his own fortune while standing uselessly aside? He remembered how happy she appeared to be, walking with him along the Pentoshi shore. How he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she was happy because she was with him. He attributed the grace of her smiles to the fair weather and the enjoyment of being somewhere other than her stuffy office hundreds of miles away. Seeing her now in such agitation, the little pieces came together in his mind and he knew down to his bones what he was about to do. The rush of certainty that engulfed him would overcome his habitual disbelief that this woman might actually have feelings for him.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” She cried with uncharacteristic frustration, “What am I to you Stannis?”

There could be no doubt in his actions as he moved in close, watched her clear blue eyes widen when he placed his hands gently on her cheeks and captured her lips with his. She melted into him, wrapping her arms about his body to press closer to his.

“Everything,” He whispered between kisses, “You are everything.”

 


End file.
